


Stamp In Time

by Theinfiniteyet



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:05:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theinfiniteyet/pseuds/Theinfiniteyet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine’s Saturday job is in his local library in Oxford, England; one day a new customer arrives who breaks all stereotypes, he is neither over the age of sixty, only interested in the computers nor a toddler and Blaine’s calculator brain begins to crack. Somehow HUMMEL, KURT returns to renew both his books and his new friendship and so it goes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Every day, Blaine gets more used to the taste of dust, the feel of paper under hand, the exact rotation of the wrist to scan a bar-code in one swift movement. He knows which areas of crime fiction loosen up the quickest. He can rearrange a bookshelf to fit the largest capacity, like the twist of the Rubix Cube he finishes every break he gets. Fifteen Minutes, one cup of tea and fifty four coloured squares, perfectly even. He knows the beeps the computer emits when a fine is due is the first three notes of Star Spangled Banner and on Monday morning he allows himself to softly sing along to the children’s nursery rhymes that fill the library, sometimes he even harmonises._

_His shift today is the nine until seven pm, unforgiving, until he leaves with the small stack of volumes he scopes out for himself every Saturday. Today he will leave with eleven little numbers in his head and a curled signature etched into his brain, like musical notes across a score, lilting and unforgettable._

10/09/2011

-Hummel, Kurt

one library card  
All Sondheim / music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim ; vocal selections prepared by Paul McKibbins.Vol. 2. – score   
Broadway Classics – score   
Broadway Musicals Show by Show 1940 -1945 – score  
Blaine is on his knees ramming in the only copy of ‘Fifty Shades of Gray’ the library deems it necessary to own, backwards, so the spine is hidden. His is uncharacteristically careless as the pages bend into the small space. The automatic doors slide open and shut again with a ping to alert him. He waits for a second, glancing towards the counter which is empty. The counter is hip level with tracksuit –clad legs that lean gently against it. Blaine is not one to judge but, to phrase it nicely; he is pleasantly surprised by the quality of the face accompanying it. From this angle the obviously rushed appearance of said stranger does nothing to detract from the sharp features of the man himself. But that’s just Blaine’s opinion.

He scrambles up and half jogs to the counter, squeezing past several haphazard book carts.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting there,” he flushes, a little more genuinely than usual.

“Oh shit,” the man replies leaning back from the desk, his ears flushing as he runs a hand across his head, “why Rachel told me only old ladies worked here I don’t know.”

Blaine glances to Childen’s Fiction, where Mary, a decidedly ancient employee of the library, is squinting over her glasses at their Rainbow Fairies collection. Honestly, he’s not even insulted, the exceptions are few and far between, “I’m sorry?” he offers, “I’m sure I could swap if you’d prefer…”

“No!” the man interrupts with more force than necessary, “it’s just I didn’t exactly dress for public, I mean obviously,” he gestures to himself with a look of disgust, “ not that you…I mean obviously you do,” he gestures this time to Blaine’s bowtie and carefully tucked in shirt, Blaine smiles, “Anyway I need some books, but no card, so library card, I would like a library card,” he rushes out and then presses his forefinger and thumb against his eyelids.

“Of course,” Blaine says gently, wondering whether further pressure might force the man into a heart attack, “we do need to see proof of address and signature if possible though.”

The man nods and pulls a wallet from his pocket, pointing a figure in an unnecessary gesture for Blaine to wait, “I am over eighteen before you ask,” he adds offhandedly, fumbling with the cards once he’s slipped them out of the pockets, “and yes, here we are, a driving licence and a bankcard.”

He places them delicately, perfectly parallel on the surface of the counter, “alright? I don’t pay bills on the house or anything, I mean not in a spoilt way, I live at home, not in a loser way, I’m still in school, I…” he stops and scoops the cards up offering them to Blaine who takes them, “Sorry, I’m sorry, today has been a long day already and Rachel doesn’t let you interrupt easily so thus,” he gestures from his mouth, “blurgh.”

“It’s fine,” Blaine tells him, gesturing for them to take a seat further down the counter, “I’m easily interrupted.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that I promise,” the man flushes slumping into the chair, letting his elbows and subsequently his head fall onto the counter, “I’m sure this looks absolutely ridiculous to you.”

“No sir,” Blaine says, shaking his head as he opens the systems, dragging the ID across the table.

“Please, no,” the man mumbles from beneath his arm, “I bet you’re older than me, It’s Kurt.”

Blaine smiles as Kurt’s hands flutter as if naturally hoping for a handshake and then thinking better of it.

“Only by five months and eighteen days, “Blaine answers quickly before thinking as he keys in these details.

“Um,” Kurt’s head appears, the ruffled hair adding to the confused look.

“Driving licence,” Blaine explains, tapping the card in front of him. Kurt nods but remains upright, “So were their books in particular you wanted?”

“Scores, for musicals,” Kurt explains, sliding back into his seat and crossing one leg over the other, “Rachel has just decided she needs to broaden her repertoire, so I need to get some more material to learn before our next rehearsal.”

“So you’re in…Musical Theatre?” Blaine guesses, typing in Kurt’s address and trying not to memorise it but he can’t help but notice how close it is to Sam’s house and then he has to map out a route he could take on the way home in order to detour and honestly the speed of his brain just makes him creepy without really trying.

“God no,” Kurt shakes his head wildly, “I’m just her accompanist, her Dads are paying me,” he smiles, almost wistfully, “no, I’d never be that brave. It’s for her audition, for NYADA.”

“Wow,” Blaine stops for a moment, to glance up surprised, “Isn’t that is America? New York isn’t it?” 

“Uh yes, that’s why I can’t screw this up,” Kurt admits, gritting his teeth, “and I thought this would be easy money.”

Blaine glances at the computer screen and blushes, fumbling with the card in his hand and stops.

“Is something wrong?” Kurt asks.

“No, no,” Blaine rushes with an overenthusiastic wave of the hand, embarrassed that he’s been caught thinking too hard about something so routine, “just, I promise this is necessary for the card but do you have a phone number we can contact you by?”

“Sure of course,” Kurt blinks, confused, “Do you want me to write it down, sometimes I get confused with numbers too.”

“No,” Blaine blushes again, feeling the flush down his neck, at Kurt’s complete miscomprehension. Blaine is nothing but perfect with numbers, numbers that he doesn’t associate with a rather lovely face and an adorable sense of humour, “read it out loud, I’ll remember.”

“Ok,ready? It’s 07314159265, got it?” Kurt grins, aware that he’s spoken a little quickly, almost as if testing Blaine but Blaine had recognised the pattern even before he had finished.

“Yep,” Blaine says, jamming the pen he’d picked up to fiddle with between his lips and regurgitating the number onto the page, “email?”

“Wow, you really want to contact me, huh?” Kurt smirks, leaning further back in his chair.

“It’s for if you have a book that’s overdue or one you request, otherwise we have to post it to you,” Blaine recites, “but if you’d rather not we can…”

“Definitely joking,” Kurt interrupts, grinning so hard his teeth peak through, “any more information necessary to thoroughly stalk me?”

“Nope, I do need to get you to sign this though,” Blaine remembers, grabbing the appropriate form and scribbling in Kurt’s details before meticulously printing them onto the card in sharpie and then pressing the sheet of film over it to keep it clean, “All clear?”

“I hope I haven’t signed up for anything nasty,” Kurt jokes, handing him back the form, “I trust you to tell me if there’s some small print to do me harm.”

“Never,” Blaine gasps, pressing his hand to his chest and scanning the card again to check it work, HUMMEL, KURT appears on the screen, “there we are,one new library card, would you like accompanying to the Scores?” He suggests as Kurt shoves his wallet into his pocket and grabs the card.

“Monsieur, what would I do without you?”

“Have only doddery old ladies to escort you and tell you about Oklahoma being the Queen’s favourite musical?” Blaine suggests sliding out from behind the counter and bowing low before gesturing the way.

“I may be batty but I’ve got good hearing, Mr Anderson, and I know your mother!” Mary calls out from behind him in what can only be described as a doddery voice.

“Mr Anderson, huh?” Kurt notes, smiling.

“Blaine,” he corrects, dodging a shelf and directing them both to the corner, “absolutely Blaine you are only five months and eighteen days younger than me after all?”

“You remember that?” Kurt asks as they reach the shelf in question and reaching up to brush his finger across the titles.

“I remember quite a lot more than I’d like to,” Blaine admits, “Including the birthday of every single one of Mary over there’s cats, and she’s got a few.”

“Gosh,” Kurt chuckles, grabbing three titles and moving back towards the counter, leaving Blaine to follow, “Aren’t you simply fascinating?”


	2. Chapter 2

17/10/11 

HUMMEL, KURT

-L’Etranger - Albert Camus

\- The Plague - Albert Camus

\- The Myth of Sisyphus - Albert Camus 

Blaine manages a week with it lodged in his brain like the Crime Section on a bad day. When he sits down in the back office for a tea break, Rubik’s cube in hand, it comes to him again, washes over him. Those kinds of coincidences don’t happen, he thinks; there’s one phone number in the whole world that looks like that, the simple 07 and then the first nine numbers of Pi. And to think that it was matched; not with some random three year old but with someone he wouldn’t mind calling or texting. Blaine doesn’t believe in fate but this is mathematical! Numbers are used to create patterns and sequences and obviously the correct sequence of this is to text that number.

Before he can think any more about it, he grabs his phone from his locker, scrambling to shove the cube back in.

“Forget to text your girlfriend, honey?” Vivian, today’s old lady, jokes looking up from her paper.

“No girlfriend, Viv,” Blaine reminds her, “Just forgot to text my mum something.”

The text he actually sends to HUMMEL, KURT reads “Did you know your phone number minus the 07 is the exact sequence of the first 9 digits of Pi? Hope you got that new music down in time. BA.”

He sends it before actually thinking it through which is terrifically out of character and even Vivian raises an eyebrow at the speed of it, used to his endless tapping and deleting. This is fate, Blaine thinks, it’s in the numbers.

Kurt texts back before the end of his break.

HUMMEL, KURT : It went terribly but I count that as a good start! Thanks for your help. That is assuming this is the doddery librarian from last week and not British Airways. KH p.s. I’m not going to ask how you knew PI in the first place but I’m presuming you are some kind of modern age Pythagoras.

The implications of Blaine’s actions rush at the wall of his skull and he winces. Surely he just broke Council Law; you can’t use any customer’s details except to contact them regarding a matter of the Libraries. That’s rule number 1 and Blaine just stabbed it in the back.

And yet, he desperately wants to respond, to correct him on his mathematical status, his distinct lack of aeroplanes; he wants to remind Kurt that there are more books here that he can come and get them; come and see him.

ANDERSON, BLAINE : Actually I’m classified as Highly Gifted and Pythagoras was clearly Profoundly Gifted but my primary role is The Dodderiest Librarian In Town. BA

He leaves it at that and hopes for the best.

Two hours later and halfway entangled in a distortion of children’s picture books flung in and around their boxes, Blaine hears the door go and glances towards the counter. It’s definitely Kurt, high cheek bones and hair even higher, but he’s dressed completely differently. His tracksuit is replaced with sheer tight black jeans and a jumper with little boats on. He looks exquisite, pristine and Blaine can’t help but wonder whether this is the real Kurt and he caught a glimpse on a bad day, or if he was lucky enough to have an insight first time around.

“Kurt!” he calls out, excitedly as he reaches the counter. Kurt grins as he turns his head to catch his spot him.

“I hoped I’d catch you, Mr Stalker!” he says, leaning on elbow on the counter so the corner of his jumper flops to reveal a delicate wrist.

“You’re the one who came to my workplace,” Blaine reminds him, grinning back, “What can I do for you today?”

“Well, your text reminded me, a) that I need to renew these books and b) I’m ridiculously short of my French books, so that,” Kurt finishes, before placing the scores previously taken out on the counter.

“Of course, do you have your card with you?” Blaine asks, flipping to the checkout screen. He scans the card that Kurt hands him, revelling in his own neat handwriting in association with this young man’s name. Despite the obviously disparity in the date, Blaine continues to stamp and renew the same books, “You know you had three weeks with these right? They don’t need renewing just yet.”

“I did not know that,” Kurt smirks, taking the books of Blaine gently, and placing them under his arm. The delicacy of his movement is disrupted by the sudden ringing of his phone, to which his response is angry, slamming the books back on the counter, “I swear to God, if this is Rachel…” He looks at the phone in question and sighs, “of course it is,” he answers.

“Rache I know this is really serious for you but this is my job and I have to get other stuff done,” he pauses, “yes I know that but obviously I’m going to practise this week,” his voice gets higher and a little louder, his other fist clenches, “of course I practised but you gave me pretty minimal time to learn several complicated pieces,” his hand goes to his hair and he closes his eyes, “I’m not insinuating that your part is any less difficult, Rachel, I know how the complexities of a vocal part works, but I’m not the one applying for a world renown school,” he pauses again and catches Blaine’s eye to mouth ‘ sorry’, “No, that’s enough,” he starts sharper again, “I’ll see you for our rehearsal on Tuesday and I hope it will be up to the standard you expect.”

He hangs up the phone and slides it back into his pocket.

“She knows how to push my buttons, I’m sorry,” Kurt explains.

“French books as in books in French?” Blaine asks, offering to ignore what just happened although he is intrigued by the relationship, Kurt smiles gratefully.

“Yes, I’m trying to get better but my school has a serious shortage, so I just keep reading the same ones over and over,” Kurt tells him.

“Follow me,” Blaine suggests, leading him back around several shelves to another far corner where he has to crouch down to reach the books in question. The shelf is pretty tight and in Blaine’s opinion it’s a pretty meagre offering but he hopes to impress Kurt so he asks if there’s a particular title.

“Oh God, I have little to no knowledge of such things,” Kurt admits, crouching down with Blaine so their knees and shoulders are touching. Blaine can feel the press of toned bicep even through the wool of Kurt’s jumper, “Camus’ pretty famous right?” he suggests turning his head so Blaine can feel his breath on his cheek. He smells fresh, like Autumn.

“Um, yes, that would be a good guess,” Blaine stumbles, a little distracted by how close they are.

“I mean I want something more challenging than Le Petit Prince for the ten billionth time but I’m not quite ready for Les Miserables,” Kurt’s accent is perfection, each inflection neat and precise.

“Reading about the sewers in English was dull enough,” Blaine adds, pulling a few Camus titles off the shelf and offering them to Kurt, who grabs them and stands, “and I have been known to have fairly dull interests.”

“I don’t think Maths is dull,” Kurt says offhandedly, offering Blaine help up from the floor. Kurt’s wrist is cool, like china and Blaine’s fingers feel rough against it, “I just wish you’d told me before I insinuated you were a dunce or something.”

“It’s not my usual conversation starter,” Blaine admits, holding onto Kurt for a little longer than necessary, “is there anything else you wanted?”

“No, that’s ok,” Kurt says softly as Blaine finally drops his wrist, which he then cradles against his hip, “Unless you’ve got anything on how to get rid of an obnoxious singer who thinks a prerequisite of being a gay man is that you’ll want to go with her to New York, because “It’s the City of the Gays, Kurt!”” Kurt’s Rachel voice is flouncy and hilarious as he mimes flicking hair over his shoulder.

“So Rachel isn’t your girlfriend then, I guess huh?” Blaine asks, his mind whirring with the information he’s been given, since, despite having already guessed, clarification from the person in question is the only real proof. He smiles despite himself.

“Dear God, no, can you imagine?” Kurt laughs, shaking his head as they head back to the counter, “I mean I can, because she’s dating my stepbrother and I hear half of it through my bedroom wall but nope most definitely gay.”

Blaine smiles as he stamps each book for Kurt, hoping that a good answer will come to him, how to tell Kurt what he wants to say, “These are due back on the 17th of October,” he says instead.

“Oh,” Kurt says, looking a little disappointed as he picks up the books, somehow under the weight of even more books he looks more fragile than delicate, “yes of course.”

Later in the day Kurt receives a text that reads:

HUMMEL, KURT: As long as a(2) b(2) = c(2) Blaine Anderson will always = Gay. p.s. Pythagoras is a genius, I am a stupid doddery Librarian. x


	3. Chapter 3

24/10/2011

HUMMEL, KURT

\- five sheets printed

Blaine doesn’t know whether to expect Kurt or not this Saturday, the texts they had exchanged really only indicated a mutual interest in each other and their surroundings. Camus was difficult but rewarding. Blaine had impressed Kurt with his knowledge of birthdates of cricket players. Kurt expressed his hope for conker season to arrive soon.

Blaine had yet to remind Kurt of his opening text or its meaning. He desperately wants it to mean something to Kurt.

Today Blaine is performing the odorous task of finding all the books to be rotated around to the next library. Searching for one picture book in the children’s section is like searching for a needle in a haystack and he’s honestly wondering, at this point, why anyone would want to read a book about animals wearing pants or, his personal favourite: “How to Ride a Cock (line break) Horse”, one of the most poorly contextualised books ever named. He’s just found this one when he hears a clearing of a throat behind him.

“Getting some tips?”

By the time he turns around he’s bright red, having almost choked on his own tongue.

“Oh my God Kurt,” he breathes out, “you can’t say stuff like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Kurt blushes and mumbles, “Honestly I don’t know where that came from, that’s so inappropriate.”

“Well it’s certainly more interesting than being lectured on the inadequate labelling of Anna Karenina as a Costume Drama,” Blaine remarks, brushing his knees off and standing, “you’d think the presence of Keira Knightley would be enough of an indication.”

“Bad day?” Kurt asks, tilting his head gently. Today his outfit is even more elaborate, with a jacket that seems to have three different zips and silver trousers.

“Better now,” he responds, smiling, “Today, my liege, what is it that you require?”

“Good sir, perchance you might direct me towards where I might use a computer?” Kurt asks, ducking his head in a slight bow, “Ours chose today to crash and I hear this modern convection of libraries is pretty good.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but we do have some pretty medieval computers,” Blaine remarks, leading them towards the back of the library where a row of clunky computers sit, “word-processor,” Blaine points to the end computer, “internet access,” he points to the others, “none where you can get both together because frankly that’s too complicated for us doddery fools.”

“And I can print?” Kurt asks, dragging out a chair and sitting in front of one.

“Come back to the front desk when you’ve pressed print and we’ll get it out back,” Blaine explains, “Ok?”

“Blaine thanks,” Kurt says softly, turning so his warm eyes meet Blaine’s, “you’re a life saver.”

“It’s quite literally my job, Kurt,” Blaine reminds him but nods in admission, “I’ll see you after ok?”

Kurt nods and Blaine returns to children’s fiction. Some twenty minutes later Kurt shuffles up to the front counter looking shifty. He leans against the counter like the first day.

“Are you ok?” Blaine asks, “Did the computer work?”

Kurt nods, rubbing his thumb against his wrist aggressively. Blaine clicks open the printing tab, and under Kurt’s printing a document has come through.

“Do you still want to print it? it’s 15p per sheet, if you don’t have any money that’s ok,” Blaine adds, considering whether that’s the problem, “I can pop out back and get some of mine.”

“No, no,” Kurt shakes his head and rubs a hand over his mouth, his face a little whiter than usual, “just print it; you’ll see, here,” He hands over a pound coin, “that should cover it.”

“Ok,” Blaine agrees, printing the document and exchanging the money for Kurt’s change in the till. When he gets to the back office he can see immediately Kurt’s embarrassment. Well, he thinks he can. The first page seems to be an application for Guildhall School of Music and Drama. Why Kurt thought Blaine would judge him for his choice’s he doesn’t know.

“Kurt,” he starts, when he exits the room with the fresh paper. Kurt turns to face him, his face creased in anxiety, “Why didn’t you want me to know?”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his eyes brim with tears and Blaine reaches for his hand across the table, “I haven’t told anyone, especially not Rachel.” he lets out a huge breath, from which a tear slips down his face, “I’m just so embarrassed that I want it so much, even though I know I’m not good enough.”

“What?” Blaine exclaims putting down the paper and grabbing Kurt’s other hand, “Who told you that? You picked up all those pieces for Rachel in less than a week,” Kurt nods and blushes wiping his cheek, but more tears slip past.

“But it’s not piano I’m applying for,” he admits, his voice high and cracked like water, “I don’t care about piano.”

“Ok,” Blaine says slowly, trying to understand, “so what is it?”

“I want to apply for Musical Theatre,” Kurt stutters out, “I know it’s stupid,” he starts again, grappling for his hand back from Blaine so he can hold them against his chest, “I have no experience and my voice is so weird and my Dad’s really supportive of me but he’ll think that I’m acting irresponsibly.”

“Kurt,” Blaine interrupts, coming out from behind the counter and leading him to sit on the tiny chairs in the Children’s area, their knees jut out in front of them, “You don’t know any of that’s true until you test it out. Why not go for it? If that’s what you really want…”

“More than anything,” Kurt interjects, wringing his hands together and staring off into the distance, “more than anything,” he repeats, brokenly.

“Do you know how lucky you are to know that?” Blaine tells him, tucking his knees up onto the chair, “I have no idea what it feels like to love something that much, to want something that much. I don’t know what I want. I worked so hard at everything that nothing stands out. Whatever the value on the X Axis, if the value on the Y Axis stays the same it’s still a straight line.”

“Blaine,” Kurt admits his voice still soft but more leveled, “I don’t understand.”

“How can there be an optimum point, if there’s no variation,” he explains, grabbing Kurt’s hand again, excitedly, “You think this is you’re optimum, why not go for it? Choosing the direction you’re going to take is always the biggest step, everything after that is simply going through the sequence.”

There is a moment when they share a look, long and thoughtful; Blaine, hoping that he has proven his point, and Kurt, scoping out whether he can trust this man like he’s never really trusted anything before.

“What if I’m not good enough?” he asks quietly, breaking the moment.

“You don’t even know what good enough is yet,” Blaine reminds him, “Do you think anyone we’ve ever loved truly thought they were perfect? No,” Blaine finishes for himself, “success comes from other people, so give us a chance, hey?” he smiles, tilting his head and trying not to think about how Kurt’s eyes make him want to reach out of his own body, springing each nerve for lift off.

“Blaine that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Kurt says, looking at his lap, “Yeah, yeah, ok, you got a pen?”

“Have I got a pen?” Blaine grins, rushing back to the counter and grabbing a few. He kneels before Kurt with his offering, “My Liege, whatever ever you may desire.”

Kurt grabs one and smiles, leaning forward to kiss Blaine on the cheek, “Thank you for your mathematical metaphors, you doddery fool.”

Absolutely anytime, Blaine thinks, preferably all the time. Instead he just grins and nods and refrains from pressing his hand to his cheek to feel the stamp HUMMEL, KURT left on his skin.

“Can I get a real chair now?” Kurt asks.


	4. Chapter 4

1/10/2011

HUMMEL, KURT

Phone renewal

Kurt doesn’t appear for two weeks. Despite understanding the stress of application time that Kurt had complained of briefly via text, Blaine is still worried. He’s worried that what he’d said had been stupid, or pretentious, or just so ridiculous that Kurt had been put off. He’s worried that Kurt is still dealing with his dreams by himself and is suffering because of it. He’s also worried that Kurt’s library books are due back to today and it’s seriously messing with his morals.

Technically, he could look Kurt up on the system and just renew them anyway, it’s perfectly fine to do so should the customer call up and ask. But he’s pretty sure it breaks the rules to do so without permission. He also feels guilty because a small part of him hopes they do go overdue because then Kurt will have to at least call and then come in to pay his fine off. But for a good three hours nothing happens at all.

It’s the slowest Saturday in a while. He’s stuck with walking back and forth to plug singular books into shelves, checking and rechecking request lists and looking up more often than necessary hoping he’s missed the ping of the door. Nothing. Nothing and dust. Nothing and dust and grumpy smelling men who grunt and ask to use the toilet.

One such customer leers at him as he follows him out back and Blaine feels distinctly uncomfortable waiting for him to return as he pretends to be taking note of back-stock.

“You’re out of paper,” the man grunts as he returns, shuffling past Blaine.

There’s a slight twinge of a headache behind Blaine’s right eye as he returns to the desk. For a moment he considers learning another section of the Dewey system just for something to do; but then the phone rings.

He answers quickly with his usual spiel, “Good Afternoon, Oxford Central Library, how can I help?”

There’s a pause at the other end of the line, “Yes, I’d like to renew my books, they’re going out of date today,” Blaine recognises the sharp voice but doesn’t comment, the man pauses and sighs lightly, “Blaine?” he asks, “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me Kurt,” Blaine tells him, tapping his pen against the desk, “Are you ok? Only I haven’t heard anything and I thought maybe,” he stops himself, taking a deep breath and opening ‘find borrower’, “Don’t worry, you wanted to renew your books?”

“Blaine,” Kurt starts, rustling down the line suggests he’s sitting down, “I’m sorry I haven’t been there.”

“They’re going to be due back on the first of October,” Blaine states instead, keying in the numbers he knows off by heart, instead of answering Kurt properly. He knows if he does he’ll get too deep in it. He’ll start getting caught up in the things in his head that trip him up, “Is that ok?”

“Yes that’s fine, of course,” Kurt rushes; Blaine can hear the distant rumble of an engine in the background, maybe the crunch of gears, “Look Blaine, I really am sorry. I know it got kind of intense and I shouldn’t have left it like that but I had to talk to my Dad and it took me way too long to work up to it and I know it’s stupid to ever assume that no one understands you but I felt so alone. And for some reason I thought seeing you might make that worse.” The last sentence stumbles along but Blaine can gather it together anyway.

Blaine is about to respond when David, the man replacing Mary for today appears beside him on the counter to serve a customer.

“Mr Hummel,” Blaine starts instead, wincing, “I’m sorry that our services made you feel like that.”

“Blaine what’s going on?” Kurt starts, sounding a little angrily, “Don’t make me out to be the bad guy ok? You know I never treated you like a bloody service.”

“Mr Hummel,” Blaine starts again, his voice cracking with the tension that David’s presence brings. The stickler for rules would never allow Blaine to take a personal call on duty and is already side-eyeing him for being on the phone to long, “We value all our customers.”

“Don’t treat me like I don’t exist just because I had to take a break and sort out things, Blaine!” Kurt almost shouts, the line cracks against Blaine’s ear making him shiver. There is harsh breathing down the phone and Blaine wonders if Kurt’s crying or plotting his death.

“Please, sir,” Blaine pleads, before rectify his voice so no one guesses, “We do have those books you wanted on the system if you’d like to come and pick it up at a later date,” Blaine starts, glancing and David and nodding. He really hopes Kurt gets what he’s saying.

“’Workplace etiquette’ by Aino UrMad,” Blaine sounds out, before Kurt can word his confusion beyond the huff he lets out, “and ‘I’ll Call You Back Later: the Phenomena of our Modern World by A. Paul. O’Geese.”

There’s a pause and then Kurt huffs out a laugh, “Shit Blaine I thought you hated me, oh my god, don’t do that,” he exclaims between breaths.

“Yes Sir,” Blaine grins and then rearranges his face to look neutral, “I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding. Is that all I can help you with?”

“You can help pay for my therapy, you dick,” Kurt suggests, rather fondly, despite his crude choice of words.

“Thank you sir, have a nice day,” Blaine singsongs, smiling.

“Difficult customer?” David asks when Blaine puts the phone down. His voice is curt and judgemental and Blaine wonders if he’s ever considered the possibility that not everything works in the context of the library rules and regulations.

“No, sir,” Blaine says, smiling as he rolls up his sleeves, “He was very grateful for my help, he thought I was someone else when I picked up the phone, you see,” Blaine adds cheekily, well aware that David was the only other male employee of the library and that he could only be referring to him.

“Well,” David says sharply, “You better go for you break and you better refill the toilet roll in the bathroom as well. We’ve already had one complaint today.”

Blaine nods and makes a quick escape, despite the horrific smell of the toilet, his need to get to his phone to text Kurt improves his efficiency and the evidence of the old man’s inability to aim is wiped away quickly.

When he gets back to his locker there’s already a text waiting.

HUMMEL, KURT: seriously though, are you mad? Because that wasn’t very considerate of me, I know.

Blaine texts back quickly, turning on the kettle, for once he doesn’t even take his Rubik’s cube out of his bag.

ANDERSON, BLAINE: No, of course not; we barely know each other. You have no obligation to see me.

He winces when he sends it, knowing it’s a complete lie on his part. He feels like he knows Kurt more than most of his own friends, who simply text him for homework help or to ask if his house is free for a party. It never is, they know that. But Kurt would get that without asking, Kurt would ask about more that maths. Kurt wants to know whether he’s hurt or not when no one’s cared before.

ANDERSON, BLAINE: I’m sorry that wasn’t true at all. I do feel like I know you and I want very much to see you. Or even just hear from you. I want you to tell me all about how excited you are to audition for Guildhall. I want you to make up ridiculous plans or great plans or even mundane plans. I want to know about all of them. I want to understand you. I want you to come to the library and tell me that the dumb terminals are as dumb as their name. I want you to come and laugh at how I know the names of all the authors of Family Saga novels because I shelf them so often. I don’t even care if you come in and rearrange all the books so I have to spend hours redoing them. I don’t care if you come in and try and print of a PDF document and it takes hours because they’re ancient computers. I don’t care if you come and use the toilet and make a mess. I don’t. I just really like it when I see your name up on my screen. I just can’t explain it but I really don’t want you to feel alone when you come to see me. Blaine. X

By the time he’s finished typing this text, it’s the end of his break and he has to go back on the counter. The rest of the afternoon he feels on edge, jittery, like his bones are rattling around and not quite protecting him as they usually do.

Five minutes before the end of his shift, the phone rings again, he answers it his hand shaking slightly.

“Hello, Oxford…”

“Is this Blaine Anderson?” Kurt asks nervously.

“Yes,” Blaine admits, “Yes it is.”

“I’d like to make a complaint,” Kurt starts, “Your staff here are far to flirty and I’d appreciate it if they didn’t make declarations of that magnitude when I’m supposed to me helping out at my Dad’s boring garage all afternoon.”

Blaine giggles with relief.

“It’s not funny sir,” Kurt starts again, though Blaine can hear him holding back laughter, “I take this job very seriously. But before I go I have a ridiculous plan for you. Next week, I’m coming in and printing off a very important PDF document and I expect you to help me along every step of the way, no matter how long it takes.”

“My Liege,” Blaine says quietly, so David can’t hear, “It would be an honour to force technology to work beyond its natural abilities with you.”

“Until then, Monsieur Anderson,” Kurt flirts back, with a ridiculous husky voice, “p.s. I refuse to make a mess in your toilets, that’s a step to far, how could you even consider that to be within my capabilities? I have excellent aim, thank you very much.”

“I never doubted you for a second,” Blaine admits, “bonne chance dans vos etudes.”

“Of course you speak French,” Kurt remarks, “it seems all I have left is excellent aim and a library card. Oh but what mischief I shall reap.”


	5. Chapter 5

8/10/11

HUMMEL, KURT

\- five sheets printed

Kurt arrives, as he had promised, just before nine o clock. Blaine can see him waiting, leaning on the fence outside as he watches the last few minutes tick by. He sees Kurt bending to pick up something from the ground and roll it gently in his hand, before placing it in his pocket.

When Blaine unlocks the door, Kurt grins and marches over to the computer, remarking over his shoulder, “I’ll see you in a minute!” with a wink.

There’s a dribble of customers, mainly busy mothers dropping off books so as not to incur a fine and a little old lady who scuttles towards the cassette tapes.

“Excuse me young whippersnapper,” an amused voice asks, Blaine looks up to see Kurt, “I’ve printed something,” he winks again, “I think.”

“It isn’t showing up on the system,” Blaine explains after checking casually, “Would you like me to take a look?”

“Ooh, how wonderful,” Kurt smirks, shuffling back over to his computer in a mock elderly mannor, Blaine glances around for offended looks, there are none, “you see I’ve got to fill this form before my audition,” Kurt explains when he’s sat back down, tapping the screen with his knuckle.

“Kurt,” Blaine breathes, “Why didn’t you tell me? This is big news!”

“You know, seventy percent of applicants get one,” Kurt says, pressing ‘print’ and mocking sighing when nothing happens, “it’s not that great of an achievement.”

“That makes thirty percent who don’t,” Blaine argues, but Kurt just shrugs, “might this be a PDF document, Sir?” he asks with a change of tact.

“I think perhaps it must be,” Kurt replies with a glint of something in his eye, “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Only if you’re short of time,” Blaine keeps pressing print to no result.

“You’ve got me as long as you want,” Kurt says, “p.s when’s you’re break?”

“Eleven,” Blaine tells him, wondering what Kurt might be up to, “Let’s try swapping computer’s,” he suggests, “T4 is a notorious piece of shit.”

“Language in the library!” Kurt exclaims as he spins his chair to the next computer.

Blaine leans over his shoulder and types in Kurt’s barcode off by heart and then whispers a reminder against Kurt’s hair, “the first thing you ever said to me was ‘oh shit’.”

“Your Benjamin Button looks and stalkerish tendencies caught me off guard,” Kurt explains emphatically, pointing to where Blaine has logged him in.

“I just thought it would be easier,” Blaine says defensively, standing upright again and crossing his arms, “It’s not like I lie awake at night memorising your personal details.”

“Hmm,” Kurt reopens the web page and tries again, this time the print tab comes up with the space to write the document’s name.

“Let’s see huh?” Blaine murmurs, slipping back to the front counter, the printing has still not pinged up.

“Problem?” Michael, his manager asks, who is covering today. Michael is nice and not as old as some of the other. Blaine also has a distinct feeling, apparent from his interest in Norwegian architecture and the number of different oils he keeps in their kitchenette that he also might be a little gay. Although, the off-hand remark that morning that he was going to see Celine Dion live this weekend without the slightest complaint might have clinched it. Despite this Blaine doesn’t want to explain.

“PDF document,” he says, off-handedly.

“Do you need me to intervene?” Michael asks, Blaine shakes his head but a queue has just started, “I’ll go sort out the computer, you serve,” Michael suggests, kindly.

“T3,” Blaine says, half-heartedly, before turning back to the customers, “good morning! Oh, interested in space are you?” he asks the little boy in front of him.

“I want to go to Mars!” The boy exclaims, “I want to change my name to Buzz and go to Mars!”

“Anthony, just give him the book,” his mother scolds in a bored manner.

“I bet you’d make a really great astronaut, Buzz,” Blaine says, scanning and stamping the book and handing it to him, “Our fate is in your hands, earthling, do planet Earth proud!” he signs off with a salute that the boy repeats with a loud ‘Thank-you!’

“Sweet,” Kurt says, from where he’s now standing at the counter while Michael prints the document of their computer which was totally going to try next, “hilariously nerdy, but sweet.”

“He’s going to be the next Buzz Lightyear, Kurt,” Blaine argues, “I think he’s earned our respect.”

“You know each other?” Michael asks, sending Blaine a long look that he can’t quite decipher.

“I’m a bit of a regular on a Saturday,” Kurt explains before Blaine can answer and most probably stutter his way through something equally embarrassing and unnecessary.

“It’s good seeing young people using the libraries,” Michael says casually, as they hear the whirl of the printer out back.

When Michael leaves to get the printed out pages, Kurt leans across the counter and says, quietly, “Do you think he knows I don’t come here for the books?”

“Yeah, he probably thinks you’re one of those annoying kids who only comes to use the computers,” Blaine teases him.

“Haha,” Kurt says, dryly, “so, you’re break, can you come out?”

“I only have fifteen minutes.”

“More than enough time,” Kurt tells him, mysteriously. Blaine cocks his head but Kurt gives away no more information, “meet out by the chestnut tree.”

Michael returns with the printed pages and Kurt pays and leaves.

Michael turns to Blaine, “See, I told you some customers make it all worth it.”

“Yeah,” Blaine murmurs, remembering the desperate conversation a few weeks ago when a rude customer had forced Blaine to out back to learn to breathe again, “I wish he knew that, like really knew it.”

Michael looks surprised but hums gently, turning to the 800’s. Blaine watches him leave and return with a book that he hands over.

“I’ve never read anyone who expresses it quite like Crawthorne,” Michael says, flicking to the page of his choosing and presses it towards Blaine, “I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m not really a poetry person, “Blaine admits.

“Blaine,” Michael says kindly but with a tone that expresses his superior wisdom, “he just quoted this woman at me,” he laughs at Blaine’s shocked face, “I’m serious, I’ve never heard someone express their thoughts about those computers quite like it,

“’nothing full of life ever works properly/nothing fixable will ever teach you anything.’ Kid’s got a brain for poetry whether you like it or not,” Blaine can’t speak, he glances out of the window but Kurt isn’t there yet, “read the thing, Blaine,” Michael suggests, “Photocopy it if you want and for pete’s sake don’t forget your break again.” 

***

ANDERSON, BLAINE

-Spun Sugar Memories by Lania Crawthorne

_They say that one dimple_

_could hold a whole star’s worth_

_of stardust,_

_and that every time you smile_

_a little bit twinkles out_

_and we call it magic._

_*_

_He is a crinkly starburst maker,_

_springs me open too,_

_like a stiff latch._

_We leave our layers of it_

_trailing behind_

_deep shadows of light._

_*_

_He calls it dust,_

_like the fragments are only_

_histories to uncover us;_

_But there is nothing more precious than_

_unique stars that never shatter_

_only invert into new power._

_*_

_He is the power that grinds the cogs_

_and loosens them._

_His is the dimple of sunlight,_

_Until our jointed memories,_

_like arthritic knees,_

_given in and soil us_

_into one Siamese skeleton_

_scattered in dusty starlight._

 

By the time Blaine has shrugged on his coat and wandered around to the old chestnut tree he knows the poem off by heart. Kurt is leant against the tree, one leg up against it with his head tilted back, looking up into the web of branches. Despite the crunch of leaves beneath Blaine’s feet making his arrival very apparent, Kurt doesn’t look down.

“Do you think they have memories, trees?” Kurt asks.

“I don’t know,” Blaine answers, taking another few steps, his hands in his pockets to keep them out of the persistent wind that he can feel between the gaps in his teeth.

“I always thought if you could look up, you could see right into a tree’s brain,” Kurt expresses, finally looking at Blaine and releasing what might be a little twinkle of something in the corner of his mouth, “how little shame they must hold in their memories to be so willing to share them.”

“Like oods,” Blaine suggests.

Kurt doesn’t respond but smiles a little more. The more he does so the more Blaine realises that making Kurt smile is his favourite thing, pushing it until his lip slips under his teeth and his cheeks tinge with pink.

“I always used to feel like they’d given me a part of themselves, you know?” Kurt starts instead, bending to pick up an unbroken conker shell and picking at it until the shiny skin appears, “they look so precious to me.”

“Like its own personal stardust,” Blaine suggests, remembering the poem from where he had engraved it on his mind in Kurt’s delicate voice.

“Yes!” Kurt exclaims, pushing off from the tree, his eyes and dimples sparkle, “there’s a poem about that...”

“I know,” Blaine interrupts, smiling at Kurt evident surprise, “I just read it.”

“Coincidence?” Kurt asks, his chin protruding in confusion.

“No, an invasive, yet helpful, boss,” Blaine admits, shrugging before dropping to a crouch to pick up another conker, the skin is perfectly smooth and cold, “so conkers?” he asks.

“Every year,” Kurt murmurs as Blaine hands it to him, he holds it up into the light and spins it slowly against the winter sun, every movement is precise and Blaine begins to see the wonder of it through Kurt’s eyes, “I try to find the best one.”

“Tradition?” Blaine asks, pressing his hands back into his pockets, his cheeks feel hot despite the cold, like his body is fighting for it.

“My Mum’s,” Kurt tells him, quietly pocketing the conker, his voice is somehow both deeper and more fragile, the weight of it hangs heavier, like a bucket swinging full in a well, “she’d put a little date on it in Tippex and name it. Every year,” he continues, Blaine stands very still and watches the scuffle of Kurt’s feet and listens to each pronounced word that Kurt chooses so carefully.

“Autumn comes, and, despite the fact that she doesn’t come back, these little memories do, like the tree’s are giving me memories she didn’t have time to share, or that we didn’t have time to get.”

“I’m sorry,” Blaine says softly, allowing Kurt time to breathe.

“I knew it was coming but I didn’t really know,” Kurt continues slowly, he looks up then with a jolt as if he’s only just noticed Blaine’s presence, his eyes look so bright and alive like he’s feeling a flush of memories so bright they almost hurt, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to dump that on you, but when I left the house this morning I saw one and it just reminded me of what you said about not being alone and I just wanted to do this with you.” he lets out a long breath.

“I would really love to help,” Blaine says softly, hoping that what he can gives makes up for what he can never truly understand.

Together they shuffle around the tree in looping circles, brushing off dirt from little conkers and big conkers and wonky conkers. The air gets steadily colder but Blaine continues on until he can’t feel his fingers. When he’s at the base of the tree he finds a conker a little different from the others. Its smooth flesh is dented like a little dimple has been smudged into it. He picks it up and calls out to Kurt.

“Look it’s like it’s smiling!” Blaine says, holding it up into the light.

“That’s it,” Kurt breathes out, taking it from him and rubbing it against his cheek.

“The dimple that could hold a whole star’s worth of stardust,” Blaine quotes softly.

“It’s my favourite that one I think,” Kurt tells him, taking a step closer so he can show Blaine the conker before he puts it in his pocket, “I always felt like that stiff latch.”

“Kurt,” Blaine says slowly, aware of how close they are, how their breaths press around them like mist, “you are the dimple, to me and you unlatch me.”

Kurt blinks but says quietly, “that’s my line, I’ve been waiting for forever to say it,” but he smiles anyway. His gaze slowly drifts to Blaine’s lips and Blaine follows the lock of it, the flutter of lush eyelashes and delicate lids, “Do you think I could...” Kurt starts, unsure, as his eyes flick back up to Blaine’s steady gaze.

Blaine nods, unwilling to break the mist around them with the croak of sound his throat feels ready to emit. Kurt presses forward suddenly and bravely. Their lips meet in a muffled gasp as they both choose to grab a last breath. Everything is cold, numb icy fingers and toes, except for the hot pressure of their lips against each other and the steady grip Kurt takes on his waist before slipping his hands into Blaine’s pockets to twist their cold fingers together.

The mutual breath they take on release, mists up like cigarette smoke between them and they both split into grins. The conkers in Blaine’s pocket bumps against their hands and Kurt manoeuvres his out flailing his elbows slightly.

“Warmer?” Blaine asks.

“Not what I was going for but yes,” Kurt replies, his voice is husky and even his ears are pink from the cold.

“Mm,” Blaine hums, “maybe I should read more poetry.”

“It wasn’t the poem, you idiot,” Kurt responds, rolling his eyes and punching Blaine gently in the shoulder, “get back to work.”

Blaine presses a quick kiss to Kurt’s cheek and pauses, before slowly trudging back inside. He has a feeling that Michael won’t mind that he’s a little late but he really should work his hours. The glimpse of dark hair and pale skin that flashes behind him as he passes through the automatic doors makes him stop again but a hand reaches out from the side of the building and presses him forward.

“That’s enough for now,” the voice says, “I’ll be back,” Blaine grins to himself and marches forward attempting to school his face before seeing his colleague but Michael smirks anyway, raising an eyebrow.

“So that’s what we have to do to get you to take your full break,” he wonders out loud, tapping out an email, “I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe we can put him on the rota.”

To Blaine, however, he realises, Kurt already iS.


	6. Chapter 6

15/10/2011

Blaine is still reeling from it a week later. The slap of newspaper upon the counter from a weary Daily Mail reader makes him jump and the presence of Mary in the corner does nothing to console him. He is waiting, for Kurt. The door roll open and Blaine looks up excitedly but instead of Kurt, there is a small aggressive looking girl with straight brown hair, an obnoxiously bright red coat and a walk so vigorous he can hear the tap of her shoes even through the carpet.

“Blaine Anderson,” she says outright, placing a fist on the counter in front of him.

Blaine looks stunned and glances to Mary in the corner, hoping that between the two of them they could at least hold this girl off if it came to that.

“Kurt finally told me and I thought it necessary to come scope you out,” she raises an eyebrow and looks Blaine up and down, obviously. Blaine shuffles nervously and readjusts his bowtie.

“Alright,” she says after a moment, “I suppose I can allow it, if you do me a favour.”

Blaine had been unaware that it was necessary for him to gain this girl’s approval, who he can only guess is the notorious Rachel, but if it gives him more of a chance, he wants to be friends with Kurt’s friends no matter how terrifying, “What did you want?” he asks tentatively.

“I want you and I to be in cahoots,” Rachel explains, flattening her hands out on the counter dramatically, he eyes harden, “I need Kurt to come to New York with me.”

“Well, that’s really his decision to make,” Blaine says, shifting uncomfortably. The intensity of this girl’s gaze is bringing up a damp sweat on the back on his neck.

“Yes,” Rachel continues, “but I need you to make him make that decision.”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate Rachel,” Blaine says, playing at her own game, she blinks slightly and he rises on to his toes so as to seem taller, “Kurt is perfectly capable of such decision making were he ever to decide to move in that direction.”

“Why?” she asks, eyeing him warily, her voice wavers a little and the ends of her words flounce like she’s trying to control them but can’t, “Are you two planning something different? Are you going behind my back? Are you some dancer trying to steal my star?”

“I’m a mathematician,” Blaine explains, trying not to laugh, her face is scrunched up in mock authority. Blaine can certainly imagine her up on stage, “and I resent the implication that I would ever force someone to make choices for my benefit.” he adds, raising an eyebrow at her.

“You don’t understand,” She says quietly and intensely, “I need him there. This isn’t a puppet show, Blaine Anderson, this is real life. I can’t go without him, I just can’t.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Blaine says, a little more tenderly, he can almost see the little rabbit patter of her heart behind that rabbit jumper, the flickering mess of fear behind her eyes.

“No, you don’t understand , I can’t,” she says, her voice a little cracked, she turns and flounces out of the library her hair flying over her shoulder. Blaine watches as her red coat flashes out of sight and then allows himself a chuckle.

Kurt comes within the hour, flushed and happy from his walk in the wind.

“Hi,” he says, ducking his head slightly as he enters.

“Good morning,” Blaine responds, smiling and tapping Kurt’s name into the system, “I don’t think your friend likes me very much.”

“Rachel was here?” Kurt hisses, smile dropping from his face.

“Yeah, she wanted me to blackmail you into going to New York with her.” Blaine says, honestly.

“Urgh,” Kurt slumps over the counter, his hair brushes Blaine’s wrist. Blaine rubs the back of his neck in comfort, “I can’t believe she’s still going on about that.”

“Why don’t you tell her about Guildhall?” Blaine asks.

Kurt lifts his head and leans his face on one hand, “if I don’t get in it’ll be even more incentive for her. I didn’t mean to tell her about you but she kept going on about how I didn’t have to go in every time to renew the books and when I got pissed that she called up about it she knew there was something going on.”

“It’s ok, Kurt,” Blaine says softly, leaning across his forearms so they’re face to face, “but just warn me about any crazy friends in the future.”

“Don’t worry,” Kurt says, a little wearily, “You’re done on the friends front.”

This comment catches Blaine a little off-guard, reminding him of how little he really knows about Kurt about his life outside the library. That, like many of his customers, he knows their personal details but nothing really personal, not what they might be having for dinner, how lonely they might feel, if they cry at the end of Love Actually, whether they like celebrating their birthday or not. He struggles to think if he knows those things about anyone.

“Blaine?” Kurt asks, “Are you ok?”

“Love Actually, did you cry at the end?” He asks, without really meaning to.

“Every time,” Kurt says, wistfully, standing up a little straighter, “Now, Mr Anderson, any books on how to break to someone that you don’t want to go with them to New York?”

“Nothing that specific, I’m afraid,” Blaine grins at Kurt’s sudden confidence, “Now how do you feel about dinner, after I get off?” He eyes Kurt warily, aware that a kiss under a tree does not always convert to immediate relationship status. He feels kind of nervous, like the strings within him are pulled tight and tingly.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Kurt asks.

“Oh no,” Blaine continues, tapping the keyboard of his computer absentmindedly and smirking slightly, “that would be against Library procedure, I was just wondering about how you felt about the concept and whether, were I to say accidentally book a table for two, say at Nino’s for 6 o’clock, whether I would be forced to awkwardly eat alone or if a tall handsome stranger might save me from my embarrassment.”

“I don’t know,” Kurt murmurs, blushing, his smile is radiant, Blaine can see the stardust; “I think something might be arranged.”

“So that wouldn’t be a stupid thing for me to do?” Blaine asks, smiling widely and biting his lip.

“No Sir, very smart I’d say,” Kurt says, “We wouldn’t want to share a seat.”

“Ok,” Blaine says excitedly, some of the coolness that came from executing his plan exactly has worn off and he can’t help jiggling a bit and grabbing for Kurt’s hand, “yes, ok, I will do that.”

“I’ll see you there,” Kurt winks, turning to walk backwards towards the door, “or will you?” he swings off the door frame and out of sight, leaving Blaine standing their stunned and warm with excitement. If he can just get through the rest of the day.

***

Kurt is the first to arrive at the restaurant. It’s a neat little place with shiny tables and shiny staff. The walls are littered with strange pieces of artwork that look like flattened pasta. It’s not very busy so a waitress sidles up to him as he enters.

“Hello sir,” she says brightly, “table for one?”

“No it’s for two, I think it was booked earlier,” Kurt explains, tugging at the corner of his coat and then shrugging it off, “I want to surprise him.”

“What’s the name?” The girl asks, grabbing his coat from him and a clipboard from a nearby desk.

“it’s Anderson, Blaine Anderson,” Kurt tells her.

“Oh?” the waitress’s eyes widen and then she grins, gesturing for her colleague to come over, “this is him,” she says excitedly, “the one that brought Blaine back.”

“Did he used to work here?” Kurt asks, confused by all the attention, though he’s grateful that the girls seem excited more than anything else.

“No he’s just our Lord and Saviour,” the other girl gushes.

“He did our accounts a few months back,” the first girl explains, “We royally screwed them up and he perfected them with his crazy maths brain.”

“So are you to like…” the other girl gestures with her hands, “together?”

Kurt blushes at the attention and the question, “umm, kind of yes,” he explains.

“I knew he was gay!” she exclaims, punching her friend in the arm, “he didn’t stare at my tits at all and I was leant right over the desk, didn’t I tell you Saskia, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Saskia sighs, “yes you did. Ok sir if you’d like to follow me, I’ll put you guys in the corner,” she glances back at the other girl and mock whispers to Kurt, “as far away from Flo as possible.”

Kurt smiles and thanks her, taking his seat, “and your meal’s on us, ok? It always it, so feel free to splash out; go crazy.”

“Thanks so much Saskia,” Kurt says again.

“Hey, Blaine really helped us out in a tough time,” she says softly, “and he was really nice about it.”

“You have a really nice place,” he says, honestly.

“I’d try the food first, honey,” Saskia replies.

They both spot Blaine at the same time, he waves and marches over, his hair is softly curled up on his head rather than the tight gelled helmet Kurt’s seen him in before and he wears a warm purple shirt that makes his eyes look divine.

“I thought I was supposed to get here first,” Blaine remarks when reaching the table.

“I thought you said you were coming to claim your free food a little earlier than this,” Saskia cuts in before Kurt can, “It’s September Blaine.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, kissing her cheek and slipping into the chair opposite Kurt, “I’m ready to gorge myself tonight, I promise,” he rubs his belly and licks his lips.

Saskia laughs and raps the back of his head with a menu before passing it to him and then one to Kurt, “No skimping on the puds tonight kids.” She says as a final comment before sauntering off.

“They seem nice,” Kurt remarks, opening his menu.

“Friends in strange places,” Blaine responds closing his menu as quickly as he opens it and pressing his knuckles against the table, “I hope you don’t think I’m skimping out on the free food thing, I promise it’s really good here.”

“Mmm, it looks it,” Kurt says, not looking up from the menu but sensing Blaine’s discomfort puts it down and reaches for him hand prying his fist open, “I’m serious it looks great. It’s nice to see you without being worried your boss will catch us.”

“So I want to know more about Kurt Hummel,” Blaine expresses, twisting their hands so they fit more comfortably across the table, where a single poppy adorns the centre.

“Nope, it’s your turn Mr I Know Your Library Card Number off by heart,” says Kurt. His voice is soft and teasing and surprisingly Blaine does not feel like he’s being judged as others have before for his creepiness in that area. It feels fond, like somehow he can relax a little, not worry about it all. Kurt softens the harsh light around them.

“Hmm, what do you want to know?” he asks as Saskia places some glasses of pink lemonade on the table which he takes a glug of.

“It’s his favourite,” she explains, “but if you want something else…”

“This is great,” Kurt says, taking a sip and nodding, she tiptoes off again, “Well how about Uni, I’m assuming you have plans, I mean I know you said you were good at everything…”

“No I didn’t mean it like that,” Blaine interrupts, putting down his glass, “no I meant that I didn’t feel that one thing that stood out for me, not one path you know, I don’t really know what I want.”

“So you haven’t decided?” Kurt asks.

“No, I have,” Blaine explains, tapping his fingernails against the cool translucent glass, letting the swish of the lemonade over ice fill him up, “Maths at Oxford, that’s where I’m going, I mean, if I get the grades.”

“But that’s not the problem,” Kurt says matter of factly, pulling Blaine’s hand off the glass and tracing his finger across the deep lines of his palm, “It’s not whether you get there. It’s whether it’s what you want.”

“Well, I’ve got to do something and it’s not exactly a hardship,” Blaine reflects, his hand trembling with the pressure to not move it under the delicate caress of Kurt’s fingers.

“I’m not saying that, only, well, I suppose,” Kurt murmurs, there being no need for them to raise their voices, both their heads bent forward enough to hear even the intake of breaths between them, “I want to know something more than that. I want to know something. What about the library? What about helping here? Is it all just out of morality? Following a path you don’t really understand? I suppose what I’m saying is maybe you don’t know what you want but what about the things that you do, why do you keep going?”

“For the smiles,” Blaine says after a moment’s thought, watching the ice melt into his glass, clinking against each other, “For the thank-yous, for the little pieces of your day people give you, for the little pieces of their lives, ‘for segments that curl off in the grind of life/ I take those pieces and treasure them’.”

“I see you’ve been reading more of that poetry,” Kurt breathes out, impressed with as much of Blaine’s heart that he can see through the dark awakening of his eyes, the flutter of his hands, the reddening of his cheek.

“I hear poetry is for expressing things you cannot yourself,” Blaine says.

Saskia arrives again and takes their orders, gently patting Blaine on the head for his predictability.

“What about your family?” Kurt asks on a change of tact, once she has gone.

“Elder half brother, two younger half sisters, very young, small enough to fit their feet in your hand, one father, one stepmother, one mother,” Blaine lists off.

“I’m not looking for your family tree, Blaine,” Kurt reminds him gently.

“I’m stuck in the middle,” Blaine admits, “there’s too many but I’m alone, there’s too much noise but at night I put my headphones next to my pillow so the hum of the music will cover the silence. We don’t have enough chairs around the table at my Dad’s for me to sit so I have to use a piano stool but I get lost in the labyrinth they call home. I can’t bear to be anywhere sometimes.”

Kurt is silent taking in the hush that Blaine’s admission has settled on the table, the weight of his words, how different this boy is from the boy so in charge, so knowing and calm at work, how the release of him has made him more real, glass that can shatter, glass that can melt.

“That’s why I knew what you meant,” Blaine continues, “about being alone when you’re not which is why I so desperately wanted to take that away from you so you didn’t have to feel it.”

“You did, you know,” Kurt reminds him, “I don’t feel it anymore, not anything close.”

Before Blaine can answer the food arrives and the mood lightens with the first moan Blaine emits, followed by an outburst of laughter. There is newness to their speech, a greater weight to it, like with every word they’ll know more, they’ll suck it in and add it to the jigsaw they’re creating of each other.


	7. Chapter 7

23/10/2011

ANDERSON, SAMANTHA

Dogger – Shirley Hughes

The Gruffalo – Julia Donaldson

The Very Hungry Caterpillar- Eric Carle

HUMMEL, KURT

London Guide Book

Blaine has a morning off from school due a problem with the water mains, so he agrees when Michael calls him desperate for some help at the Library. Monday morning’s are hectic and Blaine spends a good half an hour playing Tetris with the buggies, trying to fit in as many as he can before he has to start directing them out back. There seem to be more than usual this morning and soon he’s twisting them into gaps in the back storage room. He smiles and waves the toddling children back through until they mass onto the floor of the children’s library like a new carpet.

“Good Morning!” Michael calls, just as a flustered woman enters, a buggy to hand, with two small children dangling off it. Blaine can’t help but recognise her.

“If you’d like to come around the back,” he says tiredly.

“Oh sure!” The woman says, looking up and seeing Blaine, “oh Blaine darling why aren’t you at school? Your father said you were only here at weekends…”

“Problem with the pipes,” Blaine explains, as he directs his Stepmother out back. They manage to squish the buggy into the last space and she drags her children out, Annie on one hip and Rose hanging off one arm, “Hey guys.”

“Blaine, are we late for the singing?” Rose asks, twisting a piece of hair around her finger and pulling her mother back towards the door, Blaine gestures for them to go back to the group.

“No you’re just in time,” he says gently, as a chorus of ‘Wheels on the Bus’ starts up.

“QUUUICCCCK,” Rose calls scrabbling to the edge of the crowd, Annie hums along quietly, tucking her head into her mother’s neck. Soon they are raising their arms with the rest of the children.

They distract Blaine all morning. He keeps looking for new parts of himself in them, the tilt of a head from Annie, the beginning of dark curls in Rose that her mother has twisted into dark bulging plaits, the little nose on Annie that he thinks might be his, maybe even the way Rose counts past each member ‘in the bed that the little one said’ on her tiny fingers in such an exact manner.

He doesn’t notice Kurt as he comes in until he’s right up in his face and reaching out to touch his cheek. Only then does Blaine turn.

“Feeling broody?” Kurt asks.

“No, they’re my sisters,” Blaine explains, pointing out the girls to him who are now honking along with the geese on the farm, “and my Stepmum,” he adds. Samantha is tapping along with her daughters, trying to hide a yawn behind her hand.

“Unexpected?” Kurt asks, still looking.

“No more so than you,” Blaine tells him, slightly put out by the way that Kurt seems to be looking for parts of him in them too, despite the fact he’d been doing the same only a few minutes earlier. For Blaine it had been an attempt to avoid the pieces of them that must have called to his father like a siren, pulling them away from the rotten pieces of his own being, “bunking off from school?”

“I’ve got my audition later,” Kurt says quietly and Blaine finally sees the nervousness in his eyes and hands, jittering, “I’m trying to distract myself.”

“I’m sure you could use this as a warm up,” Blaine suggests.

“And the little one said, roll over, roll over,” Kurt sings softly, the calm lilt of a non-pressured voice making it all the more unique. The way it floats over the top notes like clouds make Blaine’s lungs feel full with air.

“I knew you were good,” he breathes, despite the fact that he never could have predicted Kurt’s voice, not if he’d closed his eyes and rewound every voice he’d ever heard.

“I thought when I came in here I’d calm down a bit,” Kurt says, his breath hitching as he pulls back the arms of his sleeves into perfect folds, “But I still feel like I’m about to wet myself.”

“We do have a loo…” Blaine says, awkwardly gesturing out back. Something about the flutter of Kurt’s hands makes him feel like Kurt is glacial today, ready to crack into pieces, or burn anything that tries to hurt him, Blaine’s not sure which.

“No, it’s not that,” Kurt rushes out, “No it’s just all the noise, I just keep thinking about whether any of those kids will want this; whether they’ll want to step out of the crowd of voices to make a sound of their own. I used to want that,” Kurt glances again at the crowd of children, nostalgically. The noise is loud but its surrounds them neatly rather than obstructively.

“You wanted to be out of the crowd?” Blaine asks.

“No I wanted to be in it,” Kurt explains, blinking his eyes shutting, the light from the ceiling flickering shadows across his eyelids, “I wanted to be in the crowd but heard, I wanted to be the voice within the crowd, distinguished, you know?” He opens his eyes to the intense return of Blaine’s, “Like a voice against the wind.”

“You make me think about things I’d never thought about before,” Blaine admits. The crowds in his life had turned inwards, asking, firing questions of progress at him, smirking, with words of glazed pride, that would melt when he never unclenched the fists they fed it to. He wished they’d spread a little, leave him room to press against the wind, to breathe and be silent, not to be heard at all, not even the creak of floorboards, desperately shushed in the night. He wishes he could pile up an igloo of books around him to keep it out.

“You don’t want that?” Kurt asks, softly but genuinely. The voices are dying down to only the chattering of mothers; mothers quick to nip off and mothers who take a seat and take a moment to drift their eyes closed.

“I work in a Library,” Blaine explains, “I breathe silence.”

“You’ve got a lot to say for someone who breathes silence,” Kurt challenges lightly.

Samantha appears behind him, with an obnoxiously raised eyebrow, challenging Blaine for an explanation. Blaine just smiles remembering the fake glint in her eye when he had come out to her family and how she had ‘prayed for them all’.

“Can you watch Annie while we pop to the loo, sweetie?” She calls instead, over Kurt’s shoulder before brushing around the counter, dragging the elder girl with her. As she passes, Rose kisses Blaine’s hand and he ruffles her hair gently before her mother yanks her away. He flumps Annie up onto the counter, balancing her floppy back with the broad of his hand. She smiles and reaches to tug at his tie, kicking her soft feet against his chest in slow round motions.

“Hello there,” he says softly, rubbing her back and looking up to see Kurt grinning.

“I like the tie too,” He explains, leaning against the counter, sticking out his hips a little more than necessary, “Maybe I’ll try that next time.” He winks and Blaine flushes, imagining how Kurt’s strong hands would feel pulling against his neck, pulling him closer into him.

“Hmm,” he hums, trying to open out his throat.

“Babies off the counter please, Blaine!” Michael calls from the corner, gathering up the toys and books that have been thrown about.

Blaine pulls Annie against his chest and swings her gently as she wraps her fingers into the back of his collar and presses her warm face into his neck. The tickle of her hair under his chin makes him feel like a bird tucked around her chicks, his wings spread, not jarringly but precious and confident.

“You’re making me want to kiss you again, you know,” Kurt interrupts his silent rocking.

“I thought Saturday would keep you going,” Blaine teases, remembering the flush of Kurt’s heart against his, how serene his eyes had looked under the warmth of the streetlamps by the bus-stop. How the press of Kurt had indented into Blaine’s very skin, against his cheek an invisible Kurt shaped hand, on his hip the other, and the tips of their toes against each other through leather shoes. He could still feel it inching into each layer of his skin.

“No, sir,” Kurt replies, roughly, before turning so he can face the returning look from Annie who has lifted herself from his chest to stare at Kurt, “Hi Honey, isn’t your brother a cuddle monster?”

“B?” Annie says, sweetly, pressing a fist against Blaine’s cheek that is stretched into a grin.

“Uh huh that’s the one,” Kurt replies, nodding and smiling, so she reaches out to press her starfish hand into Kurt’s face instead.

“Alright, honey!” A loud voice calls from behind them, making Blaine jump and Annie’s finger slip into Kurt’s eye who jolts back blinking as tears threaten, “No more molesting visitors!” Samantha sing-songs, grappling to twist the children into the two-seated buggy, “lovely to see you, Blaine!” she calls back as she shifts them quickly out the door.

“I’m guessing that’s not a regular occurrence,” Kurt asks.

“Not since the Library, I’ve not really been around, no,” Blaine admits.

“Good distracting skills though,” Kurt adds, changing the topic of conversation, sensing Blaine’s unease, “Note to self, bring a baby for all distracting purposes.”

“You’re going to be fine you know,” Blaine replies, softening at Kurt’s returning nerves.

“Kiss for luck?” Kurt asks cheekily, and for once Blaine only glancing around before leaning across the counter to press a hand against his cheek and a firm kiss against his lips. The muffled squeal that Kurt emits makes Blaine grin into it and it is only the clearing of a throat beside him that makes him pull make.

“So many rules broken today Blaine,” Michael shakes his head but smirks, “However, shall I punish you? Oh yes I have a children’s section just freshly ripped open for you.”

And for once Blaine just grins, slipping past Kurt with the squeeze of a hand and the tap of toes together beneath Michael’s view.

“Good luck,” he whispers, “Bonne chance.”


	8. Chapter 8

30/10/2011

  
ANDERSON, BLAINE

  
1 Congratulations card

  
“Hello, is this Blaine Anderson,” The breathy voice rushes out at the end of the phone before Blaine can start his spiel.  
“Um, yes,” he responds, although he’s pretty sure he knows who it is. That voice echoes in his dreams, slips across his mind in crowded hallways making him crick his neck to try and find him. And sometimes it is the warm breath against his neck, between his teeth.  
“Blaine!” the voice says, excitedly, “Blaine, Blaine, Blaine, Blaine, I got through the first round of auditions!”  
“That’s brilliant, Kurt!” Blaine breathes out, trying not to raise his voice but pressing the phone right against his lips so Kurt can feel every excited hitch in his throat.  
“I’m coming in,” he rushes out again and Blaine grins, “But I needed to tell you before then. Alright, bye!” the last few words tumble out, water-falling down the line into the puddle as he slams down the phone.  
Blaine is still grinning to himself as he scans in elderly lady’s books and she tells him about her grandson and living by the railways. This morning he wants every piece he can get, so he allows her to run on, to expel new details of human life. He remembers how he had told Kurt that this was what he loved, learning, about all the different people, detail upon detail, shelved in the library of his mind.  
Kurt comes rushing in when he’s still talking and stands fidgeting behind the woman, his fingers twisting the sleeves of his shirt and peaking around her shoulder to wink at Blaine.  
“Well, I must be off dear,” the woman finally says, patting Blaine’s hand, “thanks for the chat; you’re a doll to indulge me.”  
“It was my pleasure, Mrs Hartless,” Blaine replies, honestly, waving her off, “Good morning, Mr Hummel, I hear congratulations are in order.”  
Kurt grins, pressing up against the counter, with it’s almost ever-presence in their relationship, it now feels part of them, like they can feel each other through it, that by pressing against it, Kurt is pressing against him and vice versa.  
“Well, I’m excited,” Kurt replies, his eyes glittering with it. He looks empowered, not glass-like now but something ethereal, beyond worldliness.  
“Will you give me a rendition?” Blaine asks, glancing around at the nearly empty library.  
“What happened to silence in the Library?” Kurt asks.  
“I bet it’s still on IPlayer,” Blaine responds, and adds when Kurt looks confused, “Doctor Who episode. But really it’s only people I know in here,” he raises his voice, “Would anyone object to a morning serenade?”  
“As long as it not bloody Wheels on the Bus I’m in,” Ken calls out from the corner. A few other grunts and ‘here, here’ follow.  
“Ooh how lovely, are you a singer, dear?” Rosemary, a regular lady, asks who has just reached the counter. Kurt looks bewilders but nods smiling. Blaine raises his eyebrow and comes around to the front of the counter, and leaning against it, spreading his arms in expectation.  
“Fine,” Kurt rolls his eyes but smiles softly, stepping back so he stands in front of the doors. Something in his stance shifts until he looks spotlighted in the winter light.  
“I’m just going to grab a chair,” Rosemary says, shuffling off to drag a chair back to front row.  
Kurt closes his eyes for a moment and then opens his mouth, the angelic sound falters slightly as he starts but soon the building is warm with it. Blaine smiles as he hears the tap of keyboards stop and then the squeak of chairs rolling closer. The words crescendo across at Blaine and he almost has to close his eyes himself.

_Have you heard mine, calling from the windows_   
_Mine is the wind that swirls the snow._

He finishes, reopening his eyes, fluttering as if he had not quite been present, had been somewhere else the whole time. There is a moment of silence and then clapping echoes across the room from all the corners, followed by the energetic applause from Rosemary.  
When the applause finishes, Blaine starts, clapping gently as he surges forward to pull Kurt into a long embrace. The surge of energy he’d felt in the performance radiates through their bodies. There is nothing more that could persuade Blaine that this is Kurt’s destiny.  
“You are perfect,” Blaine whispers against his cheek as he pulls away. Kurt eyes fill with something; a sheer of oceanic water covers the blueness of them.  
“I,” Kurt starts but Rosemary interrupts.  
“You know my daughter has been trying to find a singer for her wedding,” she starts, standing from her seat, “Could I give you her contact details,” she asks.  
“I, yes of course,” Kurt stumbles, towards her, fumbling for his phone, to stamp in the number Rosemary gives him, he glances up during the process, shrugging at Blaine. Blaine shrugs back grinning and slipping back behind the desk to serve a customer.  
When Rosemary leaves Kurt returns to the counter, his eyes wide with excitement. The light from his eyes and smile radiates through him and, not for the first time, Blaine feels like Kurt might be something beyond the rest of us.  
“I’m actually getting paid, to sing!” Kurt exclaims, spinning around in a neat circle and returning to Blaine’s gaze, “This day just keeps getting better and better and better.” He leans across the desk and pressing three kisses to Blaine cheeks, so hard that Blaine thinks they might leave a mark.  
“Ok, I’ve decided, I’m telling my Dad and then you’re coming over for Friday night dinner,” Kurt rambles on, pressing his hands against his neck to stem the flush that’s rising there, “It’ll be really nice, I promise.”  
“Are you sure that would be ok?” Blaine asks, a little wondrous.  
“Yes,” Kurt breathes, leaning forward so his mouth is inches from Blaine’s and the rush of his breath flutters Blaine eyelashes, “Yes it will be perfect.”  
“Ok,” Blaine responds, “Alright, just let me know.”  
“Thank you!” Kurt sings as he leaves, almost skipping in the autumn leaves.  
It is not until he leaves that Blaine feels the dread of impending fear. What will Kurt’s father be like, would he sneer at Blaine, laugh at him behind his back? Would he hurt Kurt by being uncaring? Would he ignore him, like his own father, create a mindless schedule, where they only pass the salt and never stories, only gift in money and never care. Could he create that for Kurt? Rot open a perfectly caring family. The possibilities open up chasms in Blaine’s mind that crack headaches into his skull and patter his heartbeat into erratic meters, stuttering intervals of falling stomachs and hearts. He could not snap away that smile, wrinkle those eyes with tears. He can’t do it and he won’t.  
Instead he texts his mother to remind her that he is visiting his father this weekend and won’t be home Friday night and calls his Father to ask for a lift. He is ready to take the piano stool and the echo of crying children in the night, to save Kurt from this. He will sleep, not with the hum of headphones, but with the perfect reminder of Kurt’s cadence waterfalling through his mind in perfect canon.


	9. Chapter 9

5/11/2011

Blaine feels guilty all week. He ignores Kurt’s continuous texts that start out excited and end up bordering on aggressive. When Friday arrives he packs his bag and goes to his Dad’s. The house is enormous, white and ghost-like in its presence. It smells of baby mixture and cleaning fluid and the high rafters making the echo of Blaine’s shoes intimidatingly loud. He shrugs of his coat and shoes and dumps his bag in the dark hallway, fumbling for his phone in his pocket. The cool plastic fills him with dread.

“Blaine?” he hears from the kitchen, “It’s a such a lovely surprise to see you here.”

“Hi, Samantha,” He says, tiredly, as Annie rushes around his feet and he pulls her to his chest, if only to recreate the precious feeling of someone being so close to him.

“I would have thought you’d have something better to do with your Friday night,” Samantha responds from where she’s stirring something on the hob, Rose is sat at the table concentrated on a drawing, “You’re Dad will be home late.”

“I know,” Blaine tells her, taking a seat at the table and tugging Annie closer in under his chin, her starfish fingers dig into his stomach but he doesn’t mind, “He said.”

“Well your room’s still set up,” she replies, spooning soup into different containers, before turning to face him, “Is something up, sweetie? You don’t seem yourself.”

Blaine shakes his head, tracing patterns into the wood of the table. He can’t help but imagine Kurt sat here with him, what a family meal with Kurt here would mean, whether he’d be able to melt the ice with his angelic smile and warmth, “Just tired,” he says, finally.

His Dad arrives at 8 and they finally sit down to eat; at the late hour it is just the three of them and the air is dense with silence. Despite the distraction of food, Blaine is getting steadily more anxious and Samantha keeps shooting him looks that shake him even more.

The knock on the door is seemingly unexpected by everyone and Samantha gets up with a sigh to answer. Within a few minutes Blaine hears his name called. He puts down his fork and steps around the chair his Father has stuck out all the way. The last person he expects to see is Kurt, but there he is, dishevelled and pissed off with his arms crossed tightly and his hair flopping in the rain.

“I’ll go back to eat,” Samantha says awkwardly, shuffling back out of the hall.

“Hi,” Blaine says, his throat tight.

“What the hell, Blaine?” Kurt hisses, stepping further forward but not into the house, “You said you could come and I told my Dad and everything and now I had to embarrass myself by walking around half of Oxford to find you, you complete arse.”

“um, how did you?” Blaine asks, his head ducks against his chest, wrists pulled against each other. He feels so out of it, like he’s in a deep current and he can’t breathe, “How did you find me?”

“Well I knew you knew Sam, so I went around to his, he told you your Mum’s address and she told me you were here,” Kurt explains, “but that’s not the point, Blaine,” he runs his hand across his forehead tiredly but the crinkles of stress do not disappear, “You could have just told me you didn’t want to come.”

“It wasn’t that, honestly,” Blaine expresses, he can feel the knot in his throat tighten and a burn behind his eyelids start.

“Whatever it was you could have told me, Blaine,” Kurt replies, a little desperately.

“I didn’t want to make it worse with you and your Dad,” Blaine admits, his voice cracking and shattering in the darkness of the hall.

Kurt finally steps in the house, he is shivering with cold and Blaine shuts the door behind him. They stand awkwardly in the hall, meters apart.

“What do you mean?” Kurt asks, confused, “my Dad’s fine, he really wanted to meet you.”

“He did?” Blaine asks, surprised, he finally looks at Kurt properly and sees how tired and vulnerable he looks, it is like a mirror into his own mind.

“Of course he did, you’re really special to me,” Kurt starts, stepping closer to him.

“So he knows everything?” Blaine asks, for the first time feeling the dense pressure of the silence from the kitchen and wonders if his family can hear him.

“Yes,” Kurt blushes, then he turns serious, stepping so he’s finally in Blaine’s personal space, radiating comfort, he speaks a little softer now, “I’m assuming they don’t?”

“Not because…” Blaine starts, feeling embarrassed at his own cowardliness to tell anyone anything, to be able to brave Kurt’s Father. To be stupid enough to believe that a judgement Kurt trusted would be one to turn against him. Kurt loved his father, he had told him so and Blaine didn’t feel that. His father didn’t even feel like a person to him; so how were they even comparable.

“I get it,” Kurt says, softly, pulling Blaine against him into a deep hug, Blaine tucks his fingers into the corners of Kurt’s back and clings on desperately, “it was like that before, a long time ago, for me; it got better for me but I know that it doesn’t for everyone.”

“No,” Blaine chokes out, finally allowing the tears to run, soaking into the collar of Kurt’s coat, he presses his damp lips against his chest to try and muffled the gasps that rip out of him as he tries to breathe. Everything burns hot and he’s shaking, even with Kurt holding him so tightly.

“Oh honey,” Kurt breathes into his ear, tucking Blaine against the wall on the step at the bottom of the stairs. Blaine presses his face further against Kurt’s neck, now against the skin trying not to slick the warm skin with his tears but even when he presses so hard that he sees stars they do not stop, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Kurt soothes, rubbing his back and arms.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles out, spreading goosebumps across skin.

“No, no, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Kurt continues, holding him so tight it feels like he safe, like he’s wrapped in a blanket on a stormy night.

“Blaine,” Samantha says brightly, from the kitchen, opening the door to the hall, “Does Kurt want some pie, there’s plenty left.”

“Oh, no thank you, Mrs Anderson,” Kurt responds, hoping she’ll return to the kitchen. She doesn’t poking her head around the corner and tutting, “Oh Blaine, I knew there was something wrong, I just knew it. Did your mother upset you? She never did have any tact…”

“No, my mother is fine thank you,” Blaine says, curtly.

“Is it School, sweetie?” she continues, despite their obvious discomfort, Kurt loosens his hold sitting more appropriately and Blaine feels empty, like he’s sinking, “I know those exams are so nasty and you really are pushing yourself. Is it the library?” she continues.

“Everything’s fine,” Blaine interrupts, pressing a hand to his nose and trying to suck back in the awful redness that is pulsing at his skin, “honestly, as I said, I’m just tired.”

“Well your Father thinks that your friend should go,” she says sweetly, smiling awkwardly and Kurt who does not smile back, “It’s getting rather late.”

“Of course,” Kurt replies, standing up and tucking his hands into his pocket, “Well it was lovely to meet you Mrs Anderson, I hope I didn’t interrupt your dinner too much. Blaine,” he adds, turning to him with a fresh hard look in his eyes, “Will you come out to the car with me, I left the work in there.”

Blaine nods and follows him out into the cold wind. The darkness is shadowed by the moon leaving crosshatches of trees dancing on the gravel. Kurt doesn’t look at him as he unlocks the car, gesturing for him to sit in the passenger seat. Blaine does so, tucking his hands into his armpits and breathing in the warm air. Kurt rubs his hands together and turns on the heating.

“So, what do you want to do?” he says, finally, turning to Blaine, “Do you want me to go and we can try again next week, do you want me to go and forget this? Do you want me to stay on your drive and wait all night? Do you want to sneak me in the back door?” he grins at Blaine’s shocked face, “Or do you want to come with me? Come home with me. Come Not-Home with me. I’ll take you to your Mum’s, I’ll take you to Sam’s. I’ll take you anywhere.”

“I know a place,” Blaine says, after a moment, “and I know someone who can get us in.”

“Ok,” Kurt simply says, flicking the car into gear and maneuvering them out of the drive. Blaine glances back only to catch the ridiculous looks on the faces at the window of the kitchen, which shake their heads in disappointment. Blaine only smiles and leans back into the leather, thinking only of Kurt and the beautiful unexpected on doorsteps. Kurt thinks of the courage beside him who had gripped him and given him a part of himself, who cared enough to block out his own happiness in the misguided hope that it would save him.

The winded road ahead leads them, leads them on and away into the moonlight night time. As they turn the corner Blaine reaches and grips Kurt’s hand, their fingers slip together like jigsaw pieces, not quite complete but no longer alone.


	10. Chapter 10

5/11/2011 – 6/11/2011

ABRAMS, ARTHUR

\- Time Traveller’s Wife, The – DVD

The Library entrance is magnificent and still, arching shadows and burst of light through pale marble. Blaine takes Kurt’s hand and he leads him up the steps to the enormous wooden door that creaks slowly open on its hinge.

“Isn’t it a little late?” Kurt whispers.

“All night Library,” Blaine responds, “I’d take you to the Bodleian but that shuts at ten, so Trinity will have to do.”

The lights are dim inside, bringing out the warm colours of spines that smother the walls like gorgeous paintings. A bespectacled youth waves to them from the desk but other than that there’s no-one in sight. A great staircase splits open the centre of the room and helixes up to another floor heaving with books upon books.

“Now this is a library,” Blaine says softly, in wonder.

“You in for browsing or hanging?” The guy at the desk asks, casually.

“Is it alright if we stay, Artie?” Blaine asks, glancing at Kurt to check that he’s in agreement, Kurt nods and then turns to gaze back at the staircase. It’s the kind of staircase where initiation occurred on the way back down. The lush red carpet that adorns it brings further warmth to the room.

“Yeah, you’re good,” Artie responds, flicking back to the screen of his computer, “Here’s hoping you get this damn shift next year.”

“Here’s to that,” Blaine agrees, raising his hand with crossed fingers.

“If you’re going to fall asleep use a back corner ok?” Artie adds before they can climb the stairs, “I get into deep shit when that happens so I’ll text you if someone’s coming ok? And no sex.”

Kurt flushes a brilliant red and lets out a choked noise not dissimilar to the one Blaine lets out, rapidly shaking his head in agreement and yanking Kurt’s hand a little too hard to pull him up the stairs.

The ancient wood thunders beneath their feet and the smooth banisters tap gently under Kurt’s fingernails. Upstairs the tall bookcases encase them in a labyrinth of safety. Blaine is calmer now, only leading Kurt to a far corner where the Maths Department’s books tower in dust.

“No one ever comes this far,” Blaine explains, gesturing to where a huge beanbag sits innocuously in one corner, “I sneaked it in one night and no one’s even noticed.”

Kurt sinks into it, his legs dropping open, his shoulder against the wall, he gestures for Blaine to sit between his legs. Despite his nerves about squashing Kurt, the lack of room left after Kurt had laid out gives Blaine little other choice. He crouches awkwardly, his arms tucked against his chest, and shifts into place, refusing to put any real weight down until Kurt wraps his arms around his waist and tugs. He flops into position, warm and secure against Kurt’s hard chest, his head naturally lolling onto Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt presses a feather-like kiss against his cheek.

“That’s better silly,” he murmurs against his ear.

Blaine can feel the slow rumble of Kurt’s words drifting from his chest to throat and the delicate beat of his heart through the hardness of each individual rib, pressing against his back.

“Are you ok?” Kurt finally asks, “I mean, with earlier.”

“Yeah, I’m ok,” Blaine says, not knowing until that moment that he was. Kurt’s comfort had let the broken pieces he’d collected in his hands fall to the ground and stitched up the gashes left behind, “you should tell me about your Dad, he seems really nice.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty brilliant,” Kurt says, softly, “I used to resent it, you know, that it seemed so hard for him, but he didn’t give up, you know? He tries so hard and I think that’s worth more. He had to try at everything after Mum died and that he chose not to give up on me…”

“So you think he always knew?” Blaine asks, surprised.

“I think he always knew there was going to be something different, yeah,” Kurt continues, his voice dipping like melting wax against Blaine’s ear, warm and settling, “It became pretty obvious, I suppose.”

“My Dad left before any of us knew,” Blaine admits, pulling Kurt’s arms tighter around him and closing his eyes. He remembers only figments of the days, the dark lines that he traced in the floorboard, the slam of Cooper’s hand so close to his tiny fingers. He thinks perhaps there was a sob in the background, his mother’s perhaps, or his own. And the black bag in the hallway, filled with all the pieces of a man he never knew, a shadow in the morning, footsteps at night.

“I don’t know if it’s that. He tried a little more then. He took us out, there’s not many places that entertain both a six year old and a teenager and Cooper began dropping out and Samantha became dropping in and suddenly I was just a tool. Proof of potential. I don’t know. I guess I lost that appeal as I got older, became stuck in sums. Refused to look out the window at a passing dress. There wasn’t any part of me that was enough. No part I could solve you know. Except to go and eat and sleep and leave.”

He turns his head into Kurt’s neck to breathe for a second, feeling the soothing lilt of Kurt’s comforting hum, rubbing at the back of his neck, twisting into his curls.

“It’s harder to find the connections the more like a person you are,” he continues.

“You’re not like your Dad, honey,” Kurt interrupts softly, gripping his chin so they can get a moment’s eye-contact. In the darkness Kurt’s eyes are a deep deep blue, like the very depths of the ocean, “You’re just not.”

“I have to try really really hard not to be,” Blaine whispers.

“You’re so perfect sometimes I can’t breathe,” Kurt whispers back, “I love that you try so hard, I told you, I love that you’re so professional, I love it when you’re not. I love that you hide yourself in libraries and I love that sometimes you flip yourself out of your shell and reveal your secrets. I love that you tame yourself, with your gelled hair and perfect bowties and I love that right now you haven’t even noticed that you’re not. Blaine, you don’t have to worry about being like people or not being like people, because who you are is beyond what I could ever have imagined in a person.”

“You’re real, Blaine,” Kurt finishes, plunging Blaine’s heart deeper and deeper, until their frantic rhythms are trying to beat out against each other, rib to rib, skin to skin, life to life, “and that is more than anyone could ever ask for.”

“Please don’t go to America,” Blaine rushes out, ignoring every other thought that races across his mind, things too soon to say, like I love you, hold me closer, please stay with me forever.

“I’m not even considering it silly,” Kurt laughs, pressing a kiss against Blaine hair and then turning them so he can continue you to leave them across his face and nose, “The gay scene in this Library is good enough for me.”

“I put on a good show occasionally,” Blaine grins, tilting his face further upwards, as Kurt flutters his lips across his chin and ears, before ducking to kiss bruises into his neck and shoulders, “Look at these rainbows of books.”

“Mmm, perfect,” Kurt mumbles, his lips vibrating against his skin, the tip of his tongue flicking under Blaine’s jaw. Blaine lets out a choke of surprise, feeling teeth grinning against his skin that feels desperately thin and tight.

“We’re in a library!” he hisses, sinking deeper into Kurt’s lap so he can feel Kurt’s sharp hipbones poking at his back.

“I know,” Kurt teases, “no sex, I know.”

A lump forms in Blaine’s throat and Kurt’s trailing lips stain his neck and face pink. He feels so vulnerable and perfect so deeply pressed against Kurt’s lap. Like he’s a part of him.

“You know they have some films here,” he says, quickly, to distract from how fast everything in his body seems to be moving, despite the fact that he hasn’t physically moved for a good hour, “not porn or anything,” he ducks his head in embarrassment as Kurt chuckles, “there’s a back room to watch them in too. I can get Artie to put it on his card.”

“Sure ok,” Kurt replies, in mock disappointment, imagining how it will feel to press against Blaine in the dark and simply feel him there.


	11. Chapter 11

6/11/2011

HUMMEL, KURT

\- Pride and Prejudice - Austen, Jane

They awake to the slow reddish light of the sun brushing through the curtains. Kurt jerks awake, skin prickling with the cool air. He jolts against the warm body beside him before remembering that it is Blaine. Blaine, whose shirt is untucked and adorably ruffled by sleep, and whose hair haloes against his sleepy forehead and thickly curtains cheeks.   
Blaine’s eyes flicker open with the movement.  
“Hi,” he says, softly.  
“What time is it?” Blaine asks, mistily, trying to cover a yawn.  
Kurt checks his watch, “It’s nearly nine,” he tells him, showing Blaine his wrist.  
“Damn,” Blaine responds, pulling his hand through his hair, adorably, and trying to stand up before blushing when he realises that Kurt is half on top of him, “I’ve got to get to work.”  
Kurt shuffles off him, standing himself and then offering a hand for Blaine to stand too. Their hands press tightly together, warm and dry from the night, wrinkled precious skin. They hold on until Blaine can lead them out of the room, turning off the light as they enter into the warm morning light of the library. Despite the pressing day ahead, Blaine allows Kurt to push him gently against the banister of the staircase and retie his bowtie and iron hot hands against his shirt; all the while licking intricate patterns under his chin. Blaine tries to cover his hard breathing by tidying his hair into almost submission.  
“Maybe not Librarian Blaine standard, but certainly cute,” Kurt assesses with a final butterfly kiss, fluttering from chin to lips.   
“How obvious I haven’t been home, on a scale of one to ten?” he asks, smiling despite the fact that downstairs there is a Librarian who does not know who they are, or when they arrived.   
“Maybe a seven,” Kurt smirks as Blaine gawks, hands scrambling back to his hair, “but purpose unclear I promise, maybe you just had some kind of adventure? Got kidnapped by pirates? On the run from the law?”  
“Yeah I work with books,” Blaine teases, “I don’t live them.”  
“Well I’m guessing me coming into work with you would make it a bit obvious, huh?” Kurt suggests over his shoulder as he descends down the stairs. Even from behind he looks like he’s floating. Blaine tries very hard not to focus on the sweet dip in his boyfriend’s back and the lush tightness of his trousers.   
“I really want to say no,” Blaine utters, finally starting his own stumble down the stairs, hurrying to catch up with Kurt, “But yes, that would be very obvious.”  
“Ok, come on, let’s get you there,” Kurt grins, grappling for Blaine’s hand and tripping them down the last few steps.   
“If there’s any evidence of any untoward behaviour, I will find you and kill you,” the girl behind the counter says, coldly, as they sprint giggling from the building.   
Kurt’s car is cold in the winter morning frost and Blaine tucks his knees up so he’s cross-legged on the seat in the hope of some semblance of warm might radiate through the seat. His hands are icy so he presses them between his thighs. Kurt glances at him, warily, then slips his hand not driving the vehicle beside his. Blaine coughs in surprise and reddens.   
“Ok?” Kurt asks.  
“Yeah,” Blaine rushes out, breathily, “totally but I’m wearing stupidly tight trousers and I have to work so, rain-check?” he squeaks out.   
“Alright,” Kurt smirks, raising an eyebrow and removing his hand to shift them around the next corner, nearing the library, they’re lucky the traffic is so light, “is that a rain-check on keeping my hands warm, or something else?” He asks, the density of the air around them moves closer to them, breaching the cold air as they finally swing into the almost empty library car-park.  
“Um,” Blaine stutters out, “I hope you’re able to keep you hands warm in the meantime?”   
The silence drifts and settles like morning frost against their skin.  
“I’m sorry,” Blaine says, “I just, I sometimes remember how long we’ve known each other, not like it’s a bad thing, it’s just it terrifies me that I forget so often. How you can make me feel like I’ve known you forever. It’s like this film I once watched where this alien comes down and like completely infiltrates this family’s life and they don’t even notice because he brainwashes them to believe he’s been there forever...”  
“Are you comparing me to an alien?” Kurt says, crossing his arms against his chest and turning the engine off rather more violently than necessary.  
“No!” Blaine starts, flushing with embarrassment and energy with how much he wants to express his thoughts in the right way. In his efforts he jams his funny bone against the corner of the window and is forced to cradle it, wincing, against his chest, “no,” he starts again, softer, “not that just you really scare me, in a good way, like that tight feeling in your gut when an exams going really well and you’re hoping the rest of the questions won’t be too hard.”  
“Blaine, I’m not an exam either,” Kurt adds, looking frustrated.  
“I know,” Blaine expresses finally, reaching to grab Kurt’s carved stone face between his hands, “that’s what I’ve been trying to say; you’re not like anything I’ve ever known before, Kurt, and that’s terrifying but also kind of magical because there’s been nothing that I’ve ever wanted like this before. I didn’t think it was possible to need somebody this much.”  
“Blaine,” Kurt’s throat contracts under his name, each gulping breath of it, delicate under Blaine’s hands, “you don’t think I’m scared too? You think I was waiting for this? Yeah, maybe, waiting for a train I thought would be delayed for significantly more time; and then you just came rushing in and you made me feel, Blaine. You don’t think that’s terrifying. You don’t think sometimes my hands shake when I look at you too? I wanted you to meet my Dad so you’d seem real to me too. And that’s why I was so scared last night because for one second I thought maybe I’d made everything up and then you were there, and you held me so close. And I just want to keep being close to you, Blaine, because sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe right when I’m not with you, I know that’s silly.”  
“It’s not silly,” Blaine butts in, his throat closing up with relief and love and something else that he can’t quite describe, “no, you’re perfect.”   
“Blaine,” Kurt rushes out again and Blaine begins to wonder if just saying Blaine’s name is answer enough for them both, but Kurt continues, “Sometimes I wish that out eyes were mirrors that we could see ourselves clearly.”  
“Crawthorne, again?” Blaine asks, smiling finally.  
“Nope,” Kurt responds, seriously, “now get to work.”  
“Yes sir,” Blaine salutes him as he opens the car door to let the cold in, he turns back to press a warm kiss against Kurt’s lips, that leaves his own tingling with pressure, “I definitely want to be more than a hand-warmer,” he adds as an afterthought.   
“Good because my hands are already warm,” Kurt replies, smiling as Blaine shuts the door behind him and rings the bell to the library back door. Kurt waits a moment before driving back out into the winter morning. He’ll come back later, he thinks, and this time it will be a surprise, like the first time and he’ll do the sweeping Blaine from his feet.   
***  
The library is dull this morning, filled with the usual gormless looks from regulars who never talk and the slow thump of books to counter, padded feet and books to shelf. Blaine’s flesh still stings with the weight of being near Kurt; he thinks he can smell him on his clothes, musty and masculine and a little sleepy. Michael had rolled his eyes on his entering but he’d thrown in the Dad card and nothing more had been said.   
The slow rustling lull between the shelves sends Blaine’s mind whirring. He thinks of Kurt, abstractly, his face falling in front of his eyes like a curtain, and he hears the whisper of him through his ears, the rushing hum of syncopated melody, that jolts him, pleasantly, like the jazz music he used to bump around to in his mother’s belly; but that he stumbles to keep up with.   
It’s his mother that he thinks of next, how rude he had been to her the day before, feeling guilty for abandoning Kurt. He plans the dinner he’ll make for her when he gets home, to make up for it. Maybe, if he’s feeling brave enough, he’ll ask Kurt to come along with him.  
“Hey, stranger,” he hears a voice behind him.   
“You’ve got an odd definition of stranger, sir,” Blaine responds quickly, turning to face Kurt, who leans his body against the bookshelf, lazily playing his fingers along the spines of the books.   
“I thought we were trying not to play it obvious?” Kurt teases, his darting eyes flashing across the book titles, “Any recommendations?”  
“Not in the Romance Section no,” Blaine replies, gesturing to where they are standing, the shelf is stacked with thin pink books, with titles that leave nothing to the imagination, “Unless you’re a big Mills and Boon fan.”   
“Well, this is a library, so I’ve heard,” Kurt continues, swinging out his hip and twisting around, to parade back down the aisle, swishing around the next one, “I’m sure there’s something.”  
Blaine pokes his head around the next aisle, and moves to meet Kurt in the middle. They stand shoulder to shoulder, facing the general fiction shelf, heaving with coloured titles. Blaine tilts his head slightly, as if trying to read the spines, but brushes the side of his head against Kurt’s shoulder and rests it there.  
“What do you want to read about?” He asks, softly.  
“Happy Endings,” Kurt replies, sweetly.   
Blaine hums in response, trying not to split his lip with how much he is grinning and fingers the books in front of him, tinkling a scale along the line of spines, “ah hah,” he murmurs, tugging the corner of a book until it drops open in his hand, the pages fluttering, “this is my mum’s favourite,” he tells Kurt. Remembering the soft warmth, of her arms around him and a book resting on his head as he feigned sleep, the snuffles of tears that finally woke him after his father had left, and the smiles the veins of the book had brought back to her face in the evening light, as she rocked in her chair, watching him fall back to sleep.   
“Pride and Prejudice?” Kurt asks.  
“I’d say it’s underrated,” Blaine replies, skimming his fingers through the pages and then offering it up to Kurt, who takes it, brushing a finger across the cover, “but obviously, it’s not particularly.”   
“You read Austen?” Kurt asks, again not looking up from the book, he sounds surprised.  
“Um, no not really,” Blaine admits, “But I read a lot of really intense sci-fi that definitely doesn’t come under the category of Happy Ending, so I thought I’d go in another direction.”   
“Hmm, I’ll take it,” Kurt shrugs, tucking the book under his arm and raising an eyebrow at Blaine before heading back to the counter, Blaine stumbles after him.  
“So I know this is kind of unfair,” Blaine starts, as he scans the book in a presses the neat date into the front of the book, “because you invited me around first and I was really rude and I’m sure your Dad probably thinks I’m a complete arse.  
“He does not,” Kurt teases, giggling, and then turning serious again when he realises Blaine hasn’t finished.  
“But I’ve got a lot of people to make up to after last night,” he continues, cautiously, hoping that the counter between them will allow Blaine’s brain to work fully, to think things through, so he won’t twist his words in the opposite direction and mess things up again, “so I really need to butter up my Mum but I also kind of feel the same way and want you to meet her? Is that unfair? I mean you totally jumped that ship first and asked me and I can understand if you say no purely on that basis. Or like any basis really...”  
“Blaine, that’s really sweet,” Kurt interrupts.  
“Ok,” Blaine responds, handing the book over in defeat. He smiles but the corners tip with the little bit of hopelessness he feels.   
“No, I mean I really want to meet you Mum,” Kurt rephrases, seeing his misunderstanding, tapping the front of his book with delicate nails, one of which he lifts to press under Blaine’s chin, lifting his eye-line up again.  
“Ok?” Blaine repeats, still unsure.  
“I have a proposition,” Kurt says, bringing his hand back to the book and tracing the gold lacing of the P up and down and around, “How about we kill two birds with one stone.”  
“That sounds kind of traumatic,” Blaine states but smiles that Kurt is still there and not swinging out of the library, now he’s got his book.   
“Number 1: You have to treat your Mum,” Kurt starts, holding one finger up, “Two: I have to reconcile with my Dad because I not only cooked too much and was anxious the whole evening about you arriving that I left a huge mess in a kitchen, and then completely bailed on Friday Night Dinner altogether,” another finger flicks up, “Three: Those girls down at Nino’s could definitely use some more customers and as they’re favourite, it’s is your obligation to help with that.” Another finger flicks up into the Guiding salute.   
“Ok,” Blaine says again, “I think I see what you’re saying.”   
“Your mission, should you chose to accept it,” Kurt smirks, eyes glinting as he tucks the book back under his arm, “Get yourself and your Mother there for seven o’clock and try not to die of nerves again ok?”  
“Ok,” Blaine replies, one more time, smiling around the words and nodding again and again, “Ok.”  
“Work hard!” Kurt calls out of his shoulder as once again his visitation ends. Blaine is no longer denying to himself that he has no idea what’s happening. That the bright light that Kurt’s presence brings doesn’t completely blind him. That his Mother will bring her quiet love and it won’t be enough. That Kurt’s Father might already hate him. He wraps his arms tight around his body and closes his mind to breathe in the deep musk of the library, filing his thoughts out in dark lines to slam the spine shut around.


End file.
